The fourteenth edition of Tallinn Photomonth brings international art to the Estonian capital, examining the broader developments in art and society in a world intensively mediated by cameras, screens, and images. The third exhibition of the main programme just juuri nüüd nyt, curated by Hertta Kiiski – opens on 25 September simulta neously at Hobusepea and FOKU galleries. Here, Kiiski speaks about eyes that were wired differently, the bridges between the Estonian and Finnish art scenes, and the joys—or challenges? - of curatorial work.
Hertta Kiiski is a visual artist based in Turku, Finland. Her practice unfolds within a framework of love, embracing the magical, mythical, and esoteric. While weaving fabulous realities, much of her work emerges from the everyday domestic sphere, often in collaboration with her daughters, dogs, and other more-than-human companions.
Her photographs, videos, textile works, and installations have been exhibited internationally in solo and group shows at museums, galleries, and festivals – including recent appearances at the Gwangju Biennale in South Korea and the Icelandic Photo Festival. Kiiski has published three photobooks, the most recent of which, Otherworld (2023), was released by Kehrer Verlag. She earned her MFA from the Finnish Academy of Fine Arts in 2015 and currently serves as a board member of VTL (The Finnish Association of Photographic Artists).
What was the work process behind the exhibition?
It started with a wide net, more than 500 members across FOKU and VTL. The jury – Marten Esko (art historian and curator), Anna Mustonen (chief curator at Kiasma, Helsinki), Marina Rusakova (art historian and founder of Punctum Gallery), and I (artist and VTL board member) – didn’t build neat piles or strict categories. Instead, we followed rhythms, hunches, the odd magnetic pull of a work that wouldn’t let go. It was a conversation: between us, between the works, between two neighbouring art worlds. Slowly, the exhibition began to hum, like a rehearsal turning into a song. And now, ten artists are singing.
Your favourite works on display?
That’s like asking which organ you’d like to live without. Every work is part of the larger body, part of the pulse. Some stick because they hurt, others because they make me laugh. My favourites shift hourly, like moods.
If you could swap places with one of the participating photographers for a day, who would it be?
Probably the one whose eyes are wired most differently from mine. To crawl into their gaze for 24 hours, that would be like trying on another skin.
If the exhibition had a soundtrack, what kind of music would go with it?
Not exactly music. Something between sound and breathing, between a lullaby and a storm. It would disappear into silence and then suddenly flare up again, like a jellyfish blinking in the dark.
What insights or discoveries emerged during the process of assembling the exhibition?
That photography refuses to sit still. It leaks into performance, it marries sculpture, it whispers to cinema. Also, when Finnish and Estonian works share a room, the air gets a little bigger.
What would be the best way to take in the exhibition?
By losing track of time. By staring so long, the guard starts wondering if you’re okay. Or by sitting down and letting the works drift through you like the weather.
Working together with Estonians, how did it turn out?
Like building a bridge and discovering the river was already shallow. Things just flowed. Familiar enough to feel easy, different enough to keep us alert. Collaboration didn’t feel like a task; more like a shared rhythm we were both already humming.
Is it possible to describe specific traits of Estonian and Finnish photography, or does it feel that, in globalised worlds, no such differences exist anymore?
Both Estonian and Finnish photography are thriving internationally, fully fluent in global conversations. Differences? Honestly, it’s nearly impossible to draw tidy lines, the practices are too porous, too hybrid, too entangled. The strength is in how seamlessly they travel while refusing to collapse into clichés.
When everyone is essentially a photographer and there is a constant stream of images being created, how does one become a photographer?
By choosing, again and again. By insisting that an image is not just an accident of living but a thought, a gesture, a small rebellion. These days, being a photographer is less about owning a camera and more about cultivating an almost ridiculous level of attention.
What are the coolest parts of being a curator, and what are the hardest parts?
Coolest: when the works start gossiping behind your back and you get to eavesdrop.
Hardest: breaking up with pieces you secretly adore because the room can’t hold them all.